


Sequined Rabid Dogs

by theswisswereright



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullshit DJ AU, F/M, Gen, blame it on the alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 17:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10392156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswisswereright/pseuds/theswisswereright
Summary: Going alone to a club to see your favorite DJ spin was not the mistake. The mistake was the alcohol.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'd planned to do a second part to this, featuring more romance and other kawaii anime shit, but I never got around to it because I didn't get much response to this first half THREE YEARS AGO god I'm a loser.
> 
> Anyway, this is pretty fun to reread and I could be persuaded to continue.

You did not like clubs.  
The music was FAR too loud, the air was thick and horrendously humid, and random groping made a dramatic entrance into your life whenever you went to one.  
For the seventh time in the past hour, you sipped your drink and asked yourself what the hell you were doing in this club. Then you looked up at the DJ booth, an imposing presence looming over the dance floor from behind a steel railing.

Oh, yeah. 

Dave Strider, a.k.a. DJ Stridenasty, looked passively down at his turntables as you remembered why you dragged your friends to Plush every Friday and Saturday that you could convince them. Tonight, they had chosen to see Bewitching Bob, which was about some guy becoming a stripper. You didn’t have any reason to accompany them... the only guy you had eyes for was less than fifty feet from you. You ordered a second mojito and thought back to how precisely this had come to be.

The practicality of having a MASSIVE crush on the locally famous DJ was debatable. You first saw him on the local news channel, giving an interview about the opening of his brother’s new club. Apart from being incredibly handsome, what with the soft-looking hair and the perfectly shaped lips, Dave Strider’s demeanor had immediately entranced you. He was just so... cool. It was like he could handle anything life threw at him and come out without a wrinkle on his ironic suit. The excellence in music was slightly secondary next to the unruffled, infallible cool.

Lots of small independent magazines had done articles on him, and you hung on every word. He was two years older than you, trained in martial arts, and had lived in Houston his whole life. He had been raised by his brother, and if his answers to the questions were to be believed (which you doubted sometimes), he was both heterosexual and single.

Somehow, he’d managed to remain single, which was hard to believe based on the gaggle of girls surrounding his booth, sometimes four or five people deep. Their clothing was even more risqué than yours, and you liked to think you dressed to impress. Dave remained visibly unimpressed, and if he was at all interested, he didn’t so much as bat an eye.

You chased your straw around your mojito with your tongue until you realized both how silly you must look and how drunk you were getting without your friends to temper your drinking. Your tight, short one-shouldered dress now seemed like a torture device as you had seemingly millions of itches under the fabric. With every wiggle meant to relieve the itch, the hem of the dress rode up, sending you into an unending cycle of fidgeting. Now, not only did you look silly, you looked infested. And Dave Strider was looking at you. Looking. At you.

His shades were lowered, exposing his eyes, and one eyebrow was raised, most likely in puzzlement or unmitigated disgust. Maybe both, because that would be the best thing that could possibly happen in this situation. You held his gaze for much longer than you ever could have without the liquid courage you had been steadily imbibing, and then your senses returned to you almost violently. What were you doing?! Now you were the weird, infested, staring girl. You broke the eye contact hurriedly and ducked your head down to stare at the tabletop.

This night was not going well at all. More alcohol would be needed for your continued sanity.

You decided to forgo the straw and simply down the rest of the drink in one go. This decision proved to be unwise, not only because the punch from the alcohol almost led you to spit it out, but also because there was a mint leaf in there that was clearly not meant to be in your mouth. The solution to this conundrum was clearly to wash it down with something else, and since this leaf was so strong, it was only sensible to use something stronger to override it.

The walk to the bar was much longer than you remembered. Your shiny, spike-heeled shoes were not ideal for walking anywhere, now that you thought of it. Why had you worn them anyway? Oh yeah, Dave. Well, you wouldn’t put your chances with him too high after the business with the straw earlier. It was time for tequila.

“Bartenderrrrr....” you trailed off, seeing that the man in the orange cap was already right in front of you.

“What can I do you for, ma’am?” he drawled in a sexy Texan accent.

“Tequila. Like, a lot. Defcon five, or whatever.” You hopped onto the nearest stool, not particularly gracefully, and 

Mr. Orange Cap nodded. “Boy troubles?”

You sighed heavily, slumping your forehead on the counter. “You could say that. I made a complete idiot out of myself and all I did was look at him.”

“I did happen to see that little dance earlier...” his voice trailed off as he poured your shot, “don’t feel too bad, ya probably looked more possessed than anything.”

You tossed back the shot clumsily, managing to not spill, and flopped forward again with your head resting on your folded arms. “Just keep it coming, please.”

**~FOUR SHOTS LATER~**

Had the strobe lights in the club always been so bright and flashy? They were making your head buzz and it probably would have been a grand idea to go to the bathroom and splash water on your face. You felt like you were falling off the stool but that was silly, right? Silly. Stools were unbreakable pillars of support. You wouldn’t let me fall, would you, stool?  
That bathroom trip did sound like a good idea though. The music was pumping and you were seriously drunk and cold water would be awesome right now. Also according to your phone it was like three in the morning, which seemed a little extreme. Stupid time.

The spike heels had not gotten any more forgiving post-tequila, and they proved this by making a short walk to the ladies’ room a deadly obstacle course. You circumnavigated the legs of the stool, bounded over the used napkin, and made it almost to the bathroom door before you tripped over someone else’s stray shoe. Right, you can take shoes off, but now you were falling quite dangerously toward the concrete floor, and that would probably kinda hurt. 

And then there was a loud scratching sound, and you were not falling, and your face was not pulp, which was excellent, but how had this happened? A strong arm appeared to have slung itself around your waist in order to catch you, and now said arm was pulling you upright. There was a nice smell reaching your nose, something soapy and spicy and good, so you inhaled deeply and couldn’t help the ensuing goofy smile.

Wait, when had the music stopped?

You slowly turned around, the mystery arm still encircling you, to face your worst nightmare.

No really though, Dave Strider had saved your stupid drunk face. Dave FUCKING Strider. If you had possessed the coordination, there would have been a victory dance. Who knew that all it took to get his attention was almost making a blood spatter on his club floor?

Over the (extremely attractive) shoulder of your savior, you saw Mr. Orange Cap Bartender throw you a wink, and then vault over the bar and dash to the DJ booth. The music returned, and the mutterings of the remaining club patrons died down, and you were forced to address the matter at hand.

Dave fucking Strider had just rescued you from certain facial breakage. What the fuck were you supposed to think about that?

“Uh... hi,” you said from your position half a foot from Dave’s chest. 

“Hi,” he returned. “You just can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you, dude?”

You cringed at hearing his criticism, but felt better once you managed to peek out from under your hair to see his eyebrow raised once more. That was probably amusement, which was totally better than disgust. 

“You know, that was pretty funny earlier. Ironic shit, which is great.”

What? He thinks... He thought your spaz attack earlier was purposeful? This was excellent. This was your chance to turn things around. “Yeah, haha, I kind of don’t like this outfit. It’s like, everyone wears this stuff, but it sucks, and no one acts like it does.”

Dave was silent for a moment. You realized that to him, your previous speech had probably not made much sense. You chose to follow this realization with a quiet, “So... Therefore, irony.”

Did your eyes deceive you? Was the eyebrow going up again? Did Dave actually find you funny? Oh frabjous day!

“You really aren’t like the ones that stand around the booth like sequined rabid dogs, are you.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Ehehehe... I guess not. Mostly because, they stand there, and I do not..?” 

The look of puzzlement was back. You (quite astutely for someone whose brain was slowly pickling) realized that the longer this conversation lasted, the more likely it was that you would make a fool of yourself. Time for a getaway.

“Uh, so. Anyway, thank you for this, and you’re really great, but I am drunk, and I need to go now.”

With that, you turned out of his now relaxed hold on you, and stumbled in the vague direction of the door. That was the last thing you perceived before everything went black.

And now Dave had himself a conundrum.

“Fuck, I told him no poles in the club, and did he listen? Now there’s a drunk weird girl on my floor and she’s gonna have a hell of a headache and probably a fucking lawsuit. What the hell do I do now?” he muttered to himself as he straightened his shades. 

“...fuck it.” After several seconds of deep thought, Dave got one hand under your legs and heaved you over his shoulder, sack o’ potatoes style. He was careful to keep your dress where it belonged as he staggered under your dead weight to a door marked “Employees Only.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and put you down (probably a bit harder than would be polite) on the futon that lived in his dressing room, before going off in search of ice, and maybe a damn non-alcoholic beverage.


End file.
